


Intemperata nocte

by Mikaeru



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: M/M, Sleepy Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:16:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23173033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mikaeru/pseuds/Mikaeru
Summary: From the kinkmeme: "Crowley wakes up in the middle of the night; Aziraphale has been lightly dozing or has recently been trying out this new thing called sleep. The lights are out and it's silent, but they don't need to say a single word to fit themselves together and have slow, tender, intimate intercourse spooned up against each other, Aziraphale's chest to Crowley's back, and they don't say a word when it's done, either, just fall back asleep in each other's arms."You can find ithere!
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 95





	Intemperata nocte

**Author's Note:**

> Written for this week's COW-T M5 \o\

It's raining outside and Crowley wakes up happy to have a home. Waking up is not the right term; his body is watered down, would be soft under a tongue's touch. The street lights, far away from his world, are yellow and orange without outlines, weak; they're just splash of colours, as background as the tiny sounds of drops tapping on the glass. The room is still, deep in its slumber, and a poem comes to mind, something Aziraphale read to him a few weeks ago, "The woods are lovely, dark and deep, but I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep, and miles to go before I sleep". He blinks, bones warm.

He remembers times when he had to wait for the rain to stop in an open field, when he had to fight, to tempt when there was a snow storm, when the cold wind was cutting his skin. He closes his eyes, slowly breaths in. There's luck in this world, and happiness, and he's lucky enough to have his share.

There's the gentle weight of Aziraphale behind him, something that still has a dreamy quality to it; he's lightly snoring, voice vibrating around his lips, and has an arm thrown around Crowley's waist. Crowley has quite the fixation with his hands, his fingers, thick and smooth and creamy on Crowley's body, Crowley's face. He takes his hand and kisses the fingertips, barely strokes between the fingers, a ghost tongue tapping on his wedding band. (they exchanged rings on Christmas morning, still slightly drunk on eggnog, because Aziraphale is a sap and Crowley is too but would die before admitting it. There were a few tears but also so much snuggling that it wasn't clear from whose eyes they were falling.)

Aziraphale shuffles a little, a ruffle of the bedsheets; his sleep is a weightless thing, easy to break, as he's not used to it, and it takes a bit for a habit to properly form. Crowley kisses his palm, his wrist, scrapes on the skin with his teeth. Crowley loves to bite, to taste with his bones; Aziraphale is cinnamon and wood ashes under his tongue, raw Sienna and fine sand, the pink kind. His body is growing warmer, more solid and real. _I love you so much_ , it radiates, and Crowley can read it, because they finally speak the same language. _I love you too_ , he replies with another kiss, feeling goosebumps rippling under his lips. Aziraphale is starting to waking up, or maybe just existing in the same in-between space Crowley is currently living in. Soon, Aziraphale's warm lips find their place on his neck, lazy and delicate, a slow nibbling on his shoulder.

Crowley is almost choked by it, by the implications of all of this; by how they fit, how they synchronize. With his angel's chest against his back, he wishes all of their clothes away. Aziraphale's skin is buttery soft, so darling against his. Aziraphale hugs him, brings him closer. Buries his face in the crook of Crowley's neck, never stops kissing him. How long have they dreamed about those kisses? Aziraphale traces his mouth along the sharp line of his collarbone. The curve of Crowley's arse fits so perfectly against Aziraphale's groin, like it was made for it. Something hot is growing between them, sugar turned into caramel on their fingernails. Aziraphale's moans are low, fluttering, melting against the fine hair on Crowley's nape, over the dimples on his lower back that Aziraphale is caressing with his thumb, and Crowley's pillow is absorbing his whimpers, his aborted letters. Semi-conscious as he is, everything is amplified, because he's floating, his body free, weightless – and, oh, how he loves that, that even in this state Aziraphale is reaching out for him, that even in his sleep he's thinking of him. There are more kisses – Crowley turns his head to him, makes himself at home in his mouth, and Aziraphale bites a road from his lips to his Adam's apple, to his jaw. They're both whimpering, they're cocooned in each other as they get rid of the sheets, as the air brushes their skin. Aziraphale slowly starts to fuck him – no, he starts to be physical with him, make love to him, as it isn't copulating, it's something like a long-forgotten poem, a mermaid's song that means no harm. Aziraphale's thrusts are slow, like an old clock, but bursting with want and need. The kisses are getting slower, too, but Crowley is melting, he's nothing but pulp, nerves. He takes Aziraphale's hand, squeezes it, kisses it. He opens his legs more, gives Aziraphale space to move. Their voices intertwined, Crowley's eyes are closed shut, and cardamom bolts of light sparkle behind his eyelids. There are words on his tongue, too wet to be said. He bites down the pillow as Aziraphale is lifting up his thigh, holding it with his forearm. Crowley can't recall how many times he has fantasized about those forearms, about being held by them, feeling their weight on his body. Crowley likes to be held in bed too, to feel his angel's presence, comfort on himself, he likes being reminded of his place, where and who he belongs to.

Aziraphale is deep inside him, lovely and perfect, languid and syrupy. Crowley locks an arm behind his neck, seeking for balance, opening himself more – but, in truth, isn't he always, to his husband? He's been always his, body and soul and all those useless human organs, they're in his shape, have his scent, his accent when they speak to Crowley. The room starts to soften, the air is tinted lavender, powder pink, the yellow of newborn roses. He loves him, he loves him, he loves him so much it's obscene, suffocating, deadly.

At some point there's only his voice, and he realizes that Aziraphale has fallen asleep again, still hot and heavy inside of him. Crowley chuckles, kisses his forehead. He nestles against him, cuddling up more against his chest. He takes the arm that was holding his thigh and curl it on his waist. They breathe in unison as the darkness swallows them both pieces by pieces, calming and serene.

(the sun shines on them and wakes them up none too gently. Aziraphale hasn't moved an inch, and still finds himself in Crowley. Flustered for a moment, he nibbles on Crowley's lobe, mutely asking if he's up to picking up from where they left off last night. Crowley's response is more than enthusiastic, rocking against him while moaning more loudly that he needs. Aziraphale bites his neck, but laughs, and holds him tight.)


End file.
